Rummaging for Answers
by Anti-canon
Summary: The summer between Derek's junior and senior year he becomes entranced with sheriff's son, who's home from college and working at the local fair. He's not sure why or what he even wants to come from it, but it there and nearly all-consuming.


**A/N: Title stolen from the song Us by Regina Spektor, and an important line shamelessly stolen from (500) Days of Summer. Because I'm classy like that. In fact, this whole story was basically sparked from a late night viewing of the movie and my ridiculous fondness for it. :P Also, Derek is almost always shown as being completely sure of his sexuality and Stiles being the one to have a mini-crisis and I just thought it would be fun to turn that around. ^^ In any case! Please lemme know what you think of it!**

* * *

His name is Stiles Stilisnki and there's just something about him you can't quite put your finger on.

He's been running the ring toss booth on the boardwalk the whole summer- supposedly saving up to pay next semester's tuition. You, you've been simply trying to survive the past few months. In a few weeks you'll have to go back for your senior year, face that hell-hole of a high school you'd never found intimidating until now. Laura's all you've got left after mom and dad died, Uncle Peter couldn't handle the grief, Kate cracked under the pressure and ran. Laura tries to pretend like she's not happy about that last one, but she's doesn't try very hard, and though you know you shouldn't, you still miss her.

Avoiding it all you've been spending nearly every waking moment here. At first you paced up and down the beach, letting the roar of the waves dull all your other senses. Then, one day, you saw him, laughing until he was red in the face, making a complete ass of himself and not caring one bit. You felt second hand embarrassment for him- saw the way everyone had made him the butt of their jokes. It wasn't hard to spot, and you could tell that he saw it too, but he kept on, let it roll right off of his back.

So you continue to watch him, try and understand what makes this boy tick. You find out all you can about him from coworkers, mild internet stalking, and what you could eavesdrop on. You're not sure why you do it, what makes him so worth the time and the effort, but you feel compelled. There's something drawing you in, and you feel so much like a moth going towards the flame. Honestly, it's a little bit frightening.

He's everything you love to hate- gawky, loud, obnoxious, persistent, always playing the fool, and sometimes you want to walk right up and shake him! But you're not angry, not really. That's what's terrifying. Ever since their deaths you've been nothing but angry. Angry at them for leaving, angry at Peter for checking out, angry at Kate for being a coward, even angry at Laura for making you feel like you're weak. Despite everything she's kept on moving forward, standing tall, and you hate it. You hate your closest friend because she's being strong, and yet you can't even be honestly irritated at this boy.

You convince yourself that you're so caught up because you've created a mystery around him- told yourself there's something beneath it all and that there's some kind of lesson to be learned. You've never been so… enthralled with a person and so you start inventing all these reasons why you could possibly keep coming back day in and day out just to watch him from afar.

You lurk around the carnival like some kind of deranged lunatic, cataloguing his expressions and mannerisms and emotions. You never engage him, never break this weird documentarian's covenant you've made with yourself. Actually meeting him, maybe giving it a real try to see and why you're here, what there is to him, would shatter the illusion you've created. What if he's just some ordinary guy, just a college fratboy who's counting down the days until he can return to his normal life? What if there's nothing beneath the smiles and the guarded glint in his eyes?

For some reason you need this fantasy, and so you let yourself have it.

You are stolid, keep in line with all of the little rules you create for yourself. He doesn't notice you, is completely unaware of this obsession that he's become the center of, and you sympathize with him. Just like when you see the limpy gazelle on tv, you feel bad for Stiles knowing that he's completely oblivious to whatever _this _is, whatever could happen to him because you've apparently gone on some kind of psychotic break. At least, that _was _the assumption you'd been operating under, but now- now he's making eye contact, he's waving you over, that smile is directed at you!

You're standing across the way, sipping on a drink and moving around a plate of nachos that you haven't touched in the last hour and a half. There's no pretending like you didn't see him call, that maybe he was going for someone else. For a few long seconds you just freeze, eyes darting all around as though some kind of escape hatch might pop up so you can make a getaway. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen, and slowly you put the drink down, push your plastic chair out, force yourself to stand.

When you start to walk, you think that the space will stretch on in front of you, making the trip an eternity to worry over what's going to happen, just how badly you've fucked up. That's what happens in books and movies, but instead you're in front of him in an instant, hands shoved deep into your pockets, looking anywhere but his face. You had no time to try and think up something to say, some valid excuse for why you've been staring him down for weeks. You clam up.

He ducks his head, forces you to catch his eyes, and smiles light and easy. Just like with everyone else he throws himself right out there- doesn't even pretend like it's not reckless and stupid. "Been working up your courage a looong time. Think it's about time to give it a go?" Your muscles tense and your hands clench into fists and you can feel your eyes go wide. What's he talking about? How much does he know? Is this some kind of test? "Relax, relax! John Connor just called and he wants me to tell you I am _not _a terminator. Lame joke, I know, but we're moving on. It's just a ring toss. Tell you what, I'll give you double the rings for the same price- take some of the pressure off."

You can do nothing but blink at him for something close to a full minute before you force a grimace and drop a crumpled five dollar bill on the table. He gives you a wry smile and looks unreasonably pleased with himself before handing over ten multicolored rings, moving off to the side and sweeping his arm to present the game. "Make all ten and I'll start thinking maybe there's something mechanical about _you_- yes I brought back the reference, deal with it- make five and you get a big prize, three you get a small, anything lower and it's bupkis."

You're not sure what he's getting at, or if he's even getting at anything at all. For all you know this could be the first time he's spotted you, maybe he's just trying to do his job and bring the customers in. This late in the season he's probably getting desperate- having scared away most people with this kind of rambling word vomit. Oddly enough you're finding it comforting to find that there's someone out there who's acting as wacko on the outside as you feel on the inside.

So you bite your cheek, furrow your brow in concentration and throw your first three rings. All of them miss and you find yourself more upset about it than you probably should be. You know the game's probably rigged so you glare at it, maybe even snarl a little, and that makes Stiles snort. You narrow your eyes and turn your gaze to him, but he just holds up his hands in surrender, lips puffing out with a barely contained laugh.

You feel the need to shut him up, and so you decide to take this a little more seriously. Other people might say you were trying to impress him. Other people are stupid. You take your time and carefully toss each one, aiming for specific bottle and carefully gauging the distance and your strength. You miss every damn one.

When your hand is empty you clench your teeth and shut your eyes tight- waiting for the peal of laughter you are expecting to come from him. Instead you hear a slight rustle and then there's suddenly warm breath on your cheek, a hand in your hair, lips pressing against your own. It only lasts a handful of seconds, and by the time you realize what's happening it's too late to react. You open your eyes just as he's settling back behind the counter and lift a hand to your lips unconsciously. "Why did you do that?"

It comes out low and threatening- angry even, though you didn't intend it with any heat. Maybe he senses this, because all he does is shrug and give you a self-deprecating twist of his lips. "Because I wanted to." For him it's just that simple. He had a feeling- he acted on it. There was no plotting out the thousands of ways it could end, the problems it would create, the motivation behind it. He just _did _it.

"But I don't- I'm not-" You feel like a wire in your brain has just short-circuited. You've never met someone like this. You don't know how to respond. You can't possibly fathom being capable of what he just did.

"Well, no harm no foul then. Right?" There's disappointment in his eyes, but he's good about keeping it off his face. If you hadn't have been watching him so closely, so long, you would have missed it. You _know _that there's something more underneath. "You've just been hanging around here a lot, and I figured- what the hell? You could probably spin it off as some kind of harassment if you want, but I swear it was just a kiss. You looked like you needed one." He shrugs again, but this time you can see a blush starting to crawl up his neck. Maybe he hadn't planned out the kiss happening right now, but he'd thought about it before. You can see it.

"I'm gonna go now." You hitch your thumb over your shoulder and start backing away, step by step. You don't take your eyes off of him, as if the second you turned your back he'd vault over the little wooden barrier and molest you. He frowns at you, but just gives a small wave goodbye.

Your chest feels inexplicably tight.

* * *

Sleep was hard to come by last night- your mind running a million miles an hour and only shutting down once it reached complete exhaustion. Yet, here you are, eight o'clock on a Saturday morning and you're pulling your jacket tighter as the morning breeze floats in- chilled from the waters. The sun's not very high yet, and everything's painted this surreal orange, the light harsh against your eyes.

When you hear the rapping of feet on the boardwalk, you turn and hold your hand over your brow, stomach churning as he draws closer and closer. As always, he's unreadable, too many emotions hidden in his face to get an accurate guess as to which is real. He pulls up about fifteen feet short, blows on his hands, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Neither of you talk for several minutes, but the silence doesn't feel tense. Instead you both just watch the waves roll in and slowly, subtly, you move closer. He doesn't take notice until you're about three feet away, and even then he doesn't even turn his head- just watches you out of the corners of his eyes. In this light they're glowing like a dark honey, rich and sweet. It makes your breath hitch.

You suck at your teeth, twiddle your thumbs in your pockets, look down at your feet. It goes against everything you've ever taught yourself, it feels like you're actively pushing against the very fiber of your being, but this once, you don't think. You just do it.

Taking one long step across the remaining distance you lean in, press your forehead to his temple, and plant the most chaste of kisses on the corner of his mouth. He turns around to you, eyebrows climbing up and up and up- surprised certainly, but not displeased. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to."


End file.
